


Conclave

by Altonym



Category: Dragon Age, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-29
Updated: 2013-03-29
Packaged: 2017-12-06 21:31:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,345
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/740385
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Altonym/pseuds/Altonym
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mahariel and Tamlen worry under the canopy of night.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Conclave

“What d’you reckon she’ll say?” It was a sudden sound, like over a mist. Caradoc stirred. The forest was only barely audible through the thick tent-hide. The only light was the little gem Keeper Marethari had lent them, that burned without fuel. Tamlen sat in his underwear, carving little patterns into some salvaged bit of wood with their craft knife. Caradoc couldn’t help but smile a little, and it turned into a yawn.  
  
“Who’s she, and about what?” He blinked. Tam had this curious habit of starting conversations without any context. His friendship took maintaining the patience to keep asking questions until the first sentence made sense.  
  
“Marethari. When we tell her, you know, about this.” Tamlen gestured with the knife, squinting to see detail in his pattern. He was bad at having serious conversations, so he usually waited until he was doing something else to broach anything difficult.  
  
“I don’t know.” There was no real point to lying. “I think to some extent they probably already know. There’s precedent, I mean…just because we’ve never heard of it happening to anyone we know doesn’t mean they…won't allow it. I don’t know.”  
  
“The shems kill people for it.” Tam frowned even more intently, staring into his pattern. His hand had stopped carving – it was not a very convincing act of nonchalance. “I’ve heard they kill people for it.”  
  
“Oh, Tam, come on.” Caradoc sat up, fishing for the other elf’s hand in the half-light, gripping it tight. “Give the Keeper some credit. Are we shemlen? I bloody well hope not. The Dalish have not absorbed enough of their filth to give more credence to them than to our own…our own culture, our own history. If our own clan shows itself to be shem at heart, then we’ll go. Always…always options, Tam.”  
  
“Tell me the story again.” Tam glanced at him. “I want to hear it.”   
  
Caradoc blinked, then gave a little nod.  “Turn off the light, though, come to bed.” Tamlen heeded, as he often did. It was strange, how things reversed once they were alone. Tam was the boisterous one, extroverted, happy and kind and bright. He shone, where Caradoc dwelt. But here it was Caradoc who found himself curling a sheltering arm around Tam’s taut waist, felt a head nestle in the crook of his shoulder.  
  
Caradoc paused, shrugging on the voice of the storyteller, the conventions taught to him by the speakers of his clan and their fathers before them. He remembered the ancient phrasing, the pattern of speech that accompanied the retelling of a truth kept alive for eons. It was a skill, a heritage. The clan called him a great speaker, one of authority. It was ironic, they said, from the virtual mute. He cleared his throat - he was not embarassed at telling stories to Tamlen.  
  
“The Keeper Anwyl tells of her clan’s ancient tradition, once a tradition that was known across the Dales, that of the warrior and their bondmate – her record is taken by all Dalish as a truth of our kind. Hear this - In the time of the ancient city, there were two great soldiers, Niamh and Rhian, women of the arcane sword who knew magic and shield together.  
  
Hear that they were born of the Western Capital, the place where forgemasters ruled triumphant, their heavy anvils hammered late into the evening, a crescendo calling our might to the stars. The People of this city bound magic to their swords and understood magecraft as a whispered gift on the night - aye, they understood their gifts. Niamh and Rianh were children of this place, youths of soldiery. From a young age they proved their worth, in both the power of the tongue and spell and the power of the wielded blade. They had wit. They buried themselves together in the ancient books of the Elvhen. Of the two, Niamh was the younger - she had the greater magical ability, though both were skilled. And so too was Rianh the superior in swordplay, though both were talented.  
  
With the gentle autumn wind tickling their ears, they declared as a pair that they together would conquer the great Dragon Hux, whose malevolence was great. She had enthralled a great many shemlen to her with her ancient magic of the mind, which beguiles invisibly. Her silky syllables strung themselves out, strands to catch the thoughts in your ears. The weak-willed were taken into mindless servitude; yea, they would declare this pretender a God, and build shrines in worship. Any who threatened the great beast would be defended to a man by these slaves. The boast to godhood could not continue - it was an affront to the order of things. Niamh and Rhian would do the holiest work - root out this hubris-filled Dragon, and slay it.  
  
For a month they trekked; these brave ones crossed a distance triple the widthways span of the Great Homestead - they found themselves in a cold and foreign land, barren and mountainous. The summit of Hux's peak loomed, but yea they trekked again - and this short distance took again a month, for the peak was high and steep. It had reached the depths of winter, when the land is hard underfoot and the wind threatens to snatch the life from your fingers, by the time these two companions reached the mouth of the Dragon's home.  
  
And here, in the cavern of the beast, they proved their valour - for it is one thing to bring about vengeance on a hated foe, and quite another to show mercy to their minions. No sword yet wielded by Elvhen, whether naked or clothed in magic, can pierce the Dragon's Hide, and it soon became clear that Rianh would be useless against the dragon's scales. While her love Niamh gathered her knowledge, Rianh rebuffed the mass of troops that had swollen up to defend their draconic Queen. She killed not one, but merely struck them with her shield to incapacitate them. Meanwhile, Niamh had her mind in her books, for she knew that to outwit an opponent is to destroy her. She fired little pecking shots of thunder, fleeing in the wake of the dragonfire - each time, it appeared as if she lost ground. Rianh gave her a glance of fear, but Niamh's look of confidence emboldened them both - there was a plan afoot.  
  
Rianh kept her pledge and rebuffed each wave of minions, while Niamh drew the Dragon ever closer to the mouth of the cave - and soon out onto the rocky precipice that served as its landing perch. And with ringing words she brought down the wrath of winter, the endless blizzard. All her magic plundered the sky for the elemental power to vanquish that scaly beast.  
  
And Hux was dead, absorbed into the early evening, her bones turned to ashy snow and her scales to hard ice, and the cultists freed from their captivity. Niamh and Rianh left this place, hand in hand, and returned to the foothills. There they were married, and would go on to slay Llant, the Corrupted Sylvan, and also Trevellian, the malevolent Shem who reaches beyond his bounds. But these are stories for another scroll, and not tales for my voice to tell.

Their warriors bond placed them separate, distinct. Let it be known that they were the first to understand this truth, the truth of the warrior bond - that two alike may yet be linked inexorably by the Gods.”  Caradoc broke off quite suddenly, his voice dying down. He had spoken with authority, and now he would rest.

The hubbub of the forest life pushed in on them again. During the night, one could make out individual bird calls, twitterings. A good Dalish hunter understood which sounds meant alarm, which sounds meant “wolf”, which sounds meant shem. These sounds were benign, gentle – the sounds of home. Out here, on their frequent rangings, he and Tam had privacy enough to love one another.  
  
“I’m worried.” Tamlen’s voice issued, so close to Caradoc’s heart that it reverberated through his ribcage.  
  
“So am I.”


End file.
